


Snipping Away

by zipandzap95



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Army!John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Breakfast in Bed, First Fanfiction, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Gazes, JOHNLOCK IS ENDGAME, John cuts hair, John in Denial About His Sexuality, John thinks Sherlock has no feelings, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock is life, M/M, Minor James Sholto/John Watson, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Pining, Pining John, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season/Series 02, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slight Smut, TJLC, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top John Watson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, weird writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 05:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipandzap95/pseuds/zipandzap95
Summary: NOW UPDATED!----------"An annoying fly had come in at some point, and it now perched itself on Sherlock's forehead, its wings caught in the man's dark bangs. In a second, it flew away to buzz around the room.John's eyes followed it for a second before turning his attention back to his flatmate. His long curls were ruffled over his forehead now, reaching closer towards his eyebrows.And it was long. It had grown more and more towards the man's lean shoulders over time, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. He was never one to dote on his appearance, except when he had to look a certain way for a case.John stared at Sherlock, eyebrows raised, with his palm over his mouth as he rested his chin on his wrist.Sherlock needed a haircut."-------------When John was in the army, he was paid as a barber to cut hair for his fellow soldiers.Time passes, and one day, Sherlock is in his mind palace, and John sees that his hair has grown quite long. To cure his boredom, John decides to give the man that he's been pining after a trim.What could possibly go wrong?





	Snipping Away

"Psst. John." a voice hissed. "John Watson."

John, dressed in an army coat and hat, turned around to meet the face calling his name. His eyes met immediately with a man standing behind the wall of one of the camping tents.

"Yes, that's me," John replied, turning toward him fully. 

The man smiled in response, and he came out from behind the tent. He appeared to be well-built, with a bushy beard that went down towards his chest. John had seen him around at training and at camp, but he had never talked with him before.

"Me name's Danny." said the soldier, and outstretched his hand towards John to shake. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," John replied, and shook his hand. "Something I can help you with?"

Danny stepped closer, and he lowered his voice.

"Your mate Samuel informed me that you've got expertise in cutting hair?" Danny said, and John could feel himself grimace.

"Dammit. He told you that?" John groaned. "I'm gonna kill him."

Danny chuckled. "Well before you do that," he said, gesturing to his beard. "I could use trim of this here thing. It's getting to be pretty long, and it might get in the way of me mask."

John eyed the man warily. He hadn't cut hair since before he enlisted in the army. It had been an obligation that he had to do so he could get money to feed Harry. John sighed.

"It's been a while," John replied after a moment, to which Danny simply waved his hand in dismissal.

"Oh, that's fine," Danny replied. "You don't need to be gold-star, Johnny. Just have the steady hands to cut me beard."

Then Danny twisted, and reached his hands into his pockets, pulling out a wad of bills.

"I've got quid," Danny said, and he looked at John hopefully.

After a moment, John shrugged his shoulders in reluctant acceptance. There was really not much that he could lose.

Quietly, John led Danny to a small and empty space far from the crowd of people sitting by the fire. It was only a simple patch of grass, which was perfect for the hair to fall on to.

John walked over to the side of a random tent and smoothly snatched away a small wooden stool. He knew that nobody would miss it, and it would be perfect for his client to sit on while John did his job.

As soon as Danny sat down on the stool, John went right to work. His young body permitted his fingers to move quickly and precisely, and he was quick in reaching his combs and scissors again and again.

There were a couple times that there was a noise behind them, and John's nerves nearly jumped from his skin, afraid that someone would see them. But nobody ever came around, and John was always able to turn back to his work.

Towards the end, John went in front of Danny, and he put his hands into his hair. He pulled up the strands from their roots to check that it was even. When he was sure that it was, he stepped away from him to admire his work.

"Alright, you're all set then," said John, dusting off his hands. "You want to have a look?"

"Sure thing," Danny replied, and he took the mirror from John's hands.

He looked at the reflection of his face, and his newly shaved beard, and nodded in approval.

"Not bad, Johnny," said Danny. "Not bad at all."

John smirked at the praise and shook Danny's hand.

"Remember," said John, leaning close. "Keep this quiet, Danny. I don't want a lot of people knowing I do this."

"Not a problem, boy-o." said Danny. "Your secret be safe with me, Johnny."

* * *

The secret was, of course, not safe with Danny. It wasn't long before John's tent was continuously crammed with other soldiers wanting their hair trimmed or dyed with any color allowed in the regiment.

It was busy for John for a while. He was cutting hair from sunset to the time lights were going out. He was slowly becoming very popular and well-known. And on top of that, he was getting more and more money in exchange for his work.

Then as soon as word got out that there was a barber in camp, it spread all the way to the commanding officers within the ranks.

And one night, there was a man that came up to John's tent, the last one of the evening, who sported multiple medals and cloth of high rank.

John had heard of him before.

Major James Sholto.

He hadn't spoken to the big-shot Major yet, but something about the man-made John's throat become caught in his stomach. Every time John saw him, something stirred within him that made it feel like the fluttering of butterfly's wings.

It was no secret that the Major was exceptionally attractive. His fair-skinned face was perfectly square, with his jaw firm and gritted. Small bits of stubble littered his chin, almost as if he had tried to shave it but had decided against it.

John wasn't gay. That was important to remember.

However once the Major marched up to John's tent, late in the evening, and asked for a shave off the top of his head, John jumped at the chance.

And once the stock Major was sitting down in the chair, John got to work.

It was one of the most difficult barber jobs that John had had to do. His hands were shaking, quite nervous for some reason in front of the Major. And usually, John was happy to give abundant conversation to his fellow soldiers and clients, but this time was different. He barely said two real words to the man, and whenever he did, his words were merely stutters.

Throughout the session, John couldn't help but take it slow. And if he "accidentally" touched Major Sholto's biceps as he walked around, he just kept working and thought none of it. And he may have been closer than strictly necessary when he knelt down in front of him to check how straight his cut was.

The Major looked up at him, his brown eyes meeting John's, and the man visibly gulped. John held his gaze for a second, and consciously licked his lip.

After a moment, John broke the trance by clearing his throat, he and turned to put his scissors down into the pouch.

"Well," said John, looking down as he dusted his hands. "It seems that we're done here."

The Major gave a small nod, and he stood up from his chair, and suddenly, he was standing very close to John, looking down from his height.

Their eyes met, and it seemed to send some sort of shock into John's soul. His entire body spasmed, but otherwise he didn't move an inch.

Major Sholto didn't say anything at that moment since he was too busy running his eyes over John's face, as if studying him. John let himself be studied, his fingers twitching nervously, and he stared right back at Sholto, as if daring him to move.

But then in the next moment, their trance was broken as an officer burst into the camp, yelling for lights out. It made both Sholto and John jump, and then they couldn't help but look at each other in embarrassment.

"Well," said Major James Sholto at last. "Thank you, solider, for...for..."

John jumped in, stumbling over his words. "No-no problem, Major," he replied. "Not a problem at all."

_Not gay, not gay, not gay..._

The Major looked at John and gave him a soft smile, one that John couldn't help but return. He stood up from his chair, and walked over to the entrance of John's tent.

"I-I'll see you around, then," John said softly, a grin threatening to spread across his face.

The Major turned to face him, and he smiled back at him.

"I'll see you around, John," said James Sholto.

And then the Major left the way he came.

* * *

Years later, John watched the early morning light begin to come in through the windows as he sipped his tea in his chair.

The memories that he had in the army were definitely not all pleasant. Definitely not. But there were some that had managed to stick with him for most of his life. Pleasant ones.

Like snipping away at Major Sholto's hair, and kneeling down close to him so John could check his work.

And trying to remind himself, again and again, he wasn't gay.

John sipped at his tea again, and he drew his eyebrows together. The tea was cold now. He had been daydreaming for far too long.

Getting up, John walked into the kitchen, stretching his joints as he emptied his teacup and prepared to make another.

John was not usually up this early in the morning, and it didn't happen very often when he was able to watch the sunrise. So whenever it did happen, John always made sure he took advantage of the extra time.

When the teapot finally whistled, John poured it into his cup and stirred, and sipped.

And all was quiet.

Until the sound of a door banging against a wall startled John, and then was followed by Sherlock's thundering footsteps coming toward the living room.

Unlike John, his flatmate's demeanor was not nearly as peaceful. In fact, the consulting detective seemed to be almost frustrated and angry about something.

John watched his flatmate quizzically as he stomped around the kitchen, seeming to begin to prepare his own cup of tea.

"It was his sister," said Sherlock, his deep baritone voice filling the formerly quiet kitchen. "I thought it had been the niece, but it was the sister."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock in curiosity and slight amusement.

"Remarkable," said John. "As always."

Sherlock turned to John sharply, meeting his eyes with an intensity that tended to make John shiver.

The tea kettle whistled, and Sherlock turned away from John's eyes to tend to his drink.

"Rough night, then?" John asked once Sherlock had lumbered over to his chair.

Sherlock said nothing in response, and only continued to sip his tea.

John gave a sigh at his flatmate, which of course Sherlock ignored, and slumped over into his own chair. It seems to be best to just return to his daydreams.

When John sat himself down, a book in his lap, he saw that Sherlock had slumped his thin body against the back of his leather chair, his eyes closed with his palms pressed together in prayer form.

Right. Sherlock was in his 'mind palace', then.

John gave an amused, and rather affectionate, scoff at the man, and he turned to his book.

After a whole half-hour had passed, and the sunrise had turned into a nice early light over the city, John finally looked up at Sherlock again.

Sherlock had not budged, which was to be expected, since he commonly would stay within his mind for hours on end. Once, he had had to ask John to leave the flat altogether so he could have some privacy.

But now John didn't take his eyes off of his flatmate, who just looked so utterly peaceful and cut off from the world. It was always intoxicating to even glance at him, especially when he was in this state.

John shook his head to clear it of these thoughts, and he tried hard to return to his book, concentrating on the words. But it didn't work, and his focus was ruined.

John shut his book with a snap, and he stood up, stretching his torso and arms, and released himself with a loud sigh.

After grabbing a biscuit from the pantry, John went back to his chair, and he sat down once again.

John barely lasted two minutes with reading his book before he couldn't resist looking at his flatmate again.

It wasn't just Sherlock's relaxed demeanor- or really just his demeanor in general- that captivated John. It was also his flatmate's general appearance.

An annoying fly had come in at some point, and it now perched itself on Sherlock's forehead, its wings caught in the man's dark bangs. In a second, it flew away to buzz around the room.

John's eyes followed it for a second before turning his attention back to his flatmate. His long curls were ruffled over his forehead now, reaching closer towards his eyebrows.

And it was long. It had grown more and more towards the man's lean shoulders over time, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. He was never one to dote on his appearance, except when he had to look a certain way for a case.

John stared at Sherlock, eyebrows raised, with his palm over his mouth as he rested his chin on his wrist.

Sherlock needed a haircut.

John scoffed at the idea in the next second, the only sound in the silent room.

 _Now you really have been daydreaming too much._ thought John, smirking to himself.

Although as John thought more about it, his smile grew more and more.

He could do it.

It's not like Sherlock was going to be aware of scissors cutting at his hair, or John's hands combing it into place. He wouldn't even be able to sense if John were to slap him right across the face. Not while he was in his mind palace.

After a long moment of trying to talk himself out of the outrageous idea- and ultimately failing- John got up from his seat and went into his room.

His barber tools hadn't been touched in years, not since his stint in the army, so John had to dig far into his closet to find the pouch.

When he did, John immediately felt like he was blasted back into the past. He instantly remembered all of the long conversations and therapy sessions he would provide for the soldiers in his chair, and the feeling of inexplicable attraction to the big-shot Major of the camp.

John smiled at the memories, and he allowed his hands to graze over the silver of the tools.

Not even Sherlock knew that he had these, and John never told him about it. It was something about his past that John never deemed important, but it was always a nice private memory that he could visit anytime.

John went back out to the living room, where Sherlock still hadn't moved an inch.

And before John could change his mind, he went to work on cutting at Sherlock's dark brunette hair.

There was no denying that it felt good, not just because he was holding his tools again, but also because he never got to be this close to Sherlock. He never got to lean over him, and admire how soft and relaxed his face looked, or how silky his hair felt beneath his fingers. John now had an excuse to study him intensely, and to keep his eyes there instead of tearing them away.

When John had first begun to have feelings for his flatmate and friend, he was scared out of his wits. He questioned everything, and what it all meant. Why did he suddenly feel palpitations in his chest whenever he thought of the man? Why did he have the urge to move closer to him on the couch while watching the television?

But after months and months of denial, John finally gave in, and it was surprisingly easy to accept them. But then there was the problem of controlling himself, and never even leaving behind a sign of his feelings towards Sherlock.

And now John found it hard to resist his temptations to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and to stare intensely at his doll-like face.

As John continued to measure and cut at Sherlock's curls, John couldn't keep himself from imagining combing his fingers into his mane while they kissed, passionately and deeply. And it would be at that time that Sherlock was aware, and he would be kissing back, and it would be spectacular.

John gulped at the thoughts, and he found that he had to shift his legs within his now tight pants.

He really shouldn't think about that.

A few minutes later, the length of Sherlock's hair was finally satisfactory to John, and he quietly put away his tools in his pouch, and he stuck it underneath his chair.

John returned to his sitting position, his eyes meeting Sherlock's fair face, with his deep-set eyebrows scrunched slightly in concentration.

Smiling softly, John let his eyes wander over Sherlock for a few extra seconds, before finally returning to his book.

* * *

"Did my hair get shorter?" Sherlock asked from the bathroom, and John's head snapped up in panic.

Of course, Sherlock would find out. He always did.

"Um, I'm not sure," John said, in a voice that even he knew was unconvincing. "Let me see."

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, a confused expression on his face, and John pretended to look over his hair.

"I don't know," said John after a moment. "It looks the same to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, and he gave a loud sigh.

"Well of course it does," said Sherlock. "It looks almost identical to what I had before. But it most certainly got shorter."

Sherlock then moved and bent his arms, trying to feel out the length, as if to make a point. John had to stifle a laugh to hide how funny he thought Sherlock looked, with his lean arms reaching high to card through his own hair.

"Don't worry about it," said John, smiling. "I'm sure that it's nothing."

John turned from Sherlock, who was now staring at John with narrowed eyes. John hurried and went to sit down in his chair, pretending to become occupied with something on his laptop.

But then when John turned around again, Sherlock was kneeling right next to the side of John's chair, with his face very close. John jumped, startled, and covered his eyes with his fingers in irritation.

"Sherlock!" John said in exasperation, but Sherlock ignored him.

"You did it," said Sherlock accusingly. "You've cut off my hair."

"What?" John exclaimed, trying his best at an imitation of surprise. "Sherlock, that's absurd."

But to his horror, Sherlock reached underneath John's chair and pulled out John's pouch of barber tools.

"Sherlock, wait, don't!" John tried to say, but Sherlock was already unzipping the pouch.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, his tone mocking surprise. His eyes lifted to meet John's, and he gestured to the bag. "What are these under your chair, then, John?"

"Sherlock, stop, you're being a prat," John told him icily, snatching away his tools. "Leave my things alone."

Sherlock stopped, snapping his mouth shut, and now he was simply staring into John's eyes. John held his gaze for several seconds, not daring to break contact, even when he felt cold shivers down his back from the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

Finally, Sherlock stood up, still maintaining eye contact with John, and buttoned his suit jacket haughtily.

"Tell me why you did it, then," said Sherlock, his voice even and deep. "And when."

"Why?" John responded instantly, challengingly.

Sherlock's eyes almost lit up for a split second, as if in approval at John's daring tone, but then it returned to the stoic expression.

"I'm curious," Sherlock replied. John heaved a sigh.

"It's not a big deal, Sherlock," said John. "I-"

"And how in the world do you even know how to cut hair?" Sherlock exclaimed, interrupting John. "You haven't any experience."

"How do you know?" John asked, shifting in his seat so he could look at Sherlock in the eye. "I don't tell you everything."

"Well, you should," Sherlock said, and it was so sudden, as if it had just happened to slip out of his mouth. Immediately after the words had been said, Sherlock's face shifted briefly to a look of panic.

John quirked an eyebrow. "And what's that supposed to mean?" John asked questioningly. "You want me to tell you things?"

Sherlock said nothing, and it was one of the rare times that John got to see Sherlock anywhere close to speechless.

"Alright, fine, then," said John after a moment of silence between them had passed. "I cut hair in the army. I got paid for it. I did it for ages, until I got discharged. As a kid, being a barber was the best job that I could get, because I was friends with the owner. It got me money so I could take care of Harry."

Sherlock still didn't speak, so John kept going.

"While you were in your 'mind palace' earlier today, I noticed that your hair had gotten longer, and I decided to cure my boredom with a little trim. I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

John had, of course, left out the bit in which he was pining after his flatmate when he decided to do it. Hopefully, that would be the one thing that Sherlock couldn't deduce.

But Sherlock still hadn't said anything. And finally, he reached up into his hair again, his fingers playing at his curls.

"You did this, then?" Sherlock asked.

After John nodded, Sherlock's eyebrows raised slightly and pinched together, as if unsure of what to do with that information.

"It's..." he said, as if searching for words. "It's...very good."

John's eyebrows raised almost to the height of his hairline and wondered if he heard Sherlock right.

"I'm sorry," said John. "Did you just compliment me?"

But Sherlock ignored his question as if he hadn't said a word. Instead, he leaned down next to John's side again, staring intensely at him.

"I'd like to watch you," said Sherlock, his face totally straight.

John blinked a couple times in surprise. "You...want to watch me cut your hair?" he asked. "Why?"

"I want to watch your progress," Sherlock replied. "While being fully aware, this time, of course."

John let out an airy chuckle and shook his head. Sherlock only responded with a small smirk.

"You think you're bloody clever, don't you?" John asked, smiling, and Sherlock shrugged.

"Only because you tell me so," Sherlock replied, and John chuckled.

"Alright, you git," said John, not bothering to keep the fondness from his voice. "I'll cut it again. But we have to wait until it grows out."

At that, Sherlock let out a loud sigh of annoyance, which only made John smile wider.

* * *

It had only been a week that had passed, and Sherlock was as impatient as ever. Sherlock was never the type of person specifically for emotion (except to express absolute annoyance with Anderson) so he never admitted to his irritation. But over the course of time, John would sometimes catch him in the bathroom, checking the length of his hair to see if it had grown long enough.

It was getting dark out when John finally gestured for Sherlock to sit in his armchair, carrying the tools in his hand. Sherlock was sitting down in ten seconds flat.

"Right, okay," John said, and suddenly, he was unsure of himself. "Okay. Just, just sit back, I suppose."

John was just bending down to get his tools when it hit him.

This couldn't be like the last time John had cut Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hadn't been aware at the time, and John had been allowed to get close, not just because he wanted to, but because it was required in the job.

What will happen when John has to get close to Sherlock because he had to check if the cut was straight? Or, even worse, what if Sherlock got uncomfortable, and decided to end the session altogether?

John inhaled sharply. He had not thought this through.

"Oh stop worrying, John." Sherlock sighed, waving his hand in the air, and effectively knocking John out of his stupor. "The closeness won't bother me. I'm simply curious as to how you do this. I've never trusted the barbers that I go to very much. They have a surprising amount of terrible things to deduce."

John let out an airy chuckle. Of course, Sherlock could read his mind.

"But you, John, I trust," Sherlock continued. "Just think of it as an experiment."

John swallowed thickly and nodded.

"Right," John said. "Okay. You're right."

John pulled out his tools from his kit, ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft hair, and began to snip away.

Because of Sherlock's casual assurances, John was no longer self-aware of his proximity to Sherlock, nor was he nervous about it. If Sherlock didn't mind being close to John, and he was aware, then that was a win in John's book.

He can milk this for all it was worth.

After a few minutes had passed, John was almost enjoying himself. It was actually better with Sherlock aware of what John was doing, because it left behind this feeling of pride knowing that he was watching and studying.

Sherlock hadn't said a word during the entire session. He was simply observing, silently. And if Sherlock leaned into the touch of John's hands when they ran through his hair, none of them mentioned it.

It wasn't until John had to brush Sherlock's hair away to the side with his fingers that their eyes finally met.

And once Sherlock's eyes were on his, it was as if someone had squeezed John's heart so that it skipped a beat, sending ripples of emotion tumbling around his body. It was a surreal feeling, one that John had never experienced before.

Sherlock didn't look away from John's eyes, and with every second that passed, John could feel his heart beat faster at the contact. And for a moment, it was completely silent, and completely still.

After a long second had passed with them simply just staring at each other, John looked away and cleared his throat.

"Right, well," said John, his voice shaky. "I've just got to check that it's not crooked. Then you're, well, free to go."

Sherlock's eyes dropped to his lap and pressed his lips together, not saying anything in response. He looked almost disappointed.

John bent forward, running his hands in Sherlock's curls once again, and raised them up from the roots to check his work.

Then John leaned closer into Sherlock's space, and with each inch between them slowly disappearing, the more John's stomach twisted.

The entire time, Sherlock simply stared up at John, his green eyes darting over his face. John gulped as the tension in the room increased, and as the space between them thinned.

Then finally John built up the courage to look back at Sherlock's eyes again, and this time, John did not look away.

But now there was something different in Sherlock's eyes this time. It was intense, a different version of the faint glint that they usually shared together when their eyes met.

All of the moments came together in John's mind, flashing rapidly before his eyes.

_"You don't have a girlfriend then." "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."_

_"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

_"I'd be lost without my blogger."_

Sherlock was still looking at John, waiting for him to move away. They were leaning in a lot closer to each other now, and there was this new air now, Something freed.

Sherlock's hand suddenly moved, and John's eyes couldn't help but dart down to follow it.

Sherlock's thin fingers crawled across the armrest toward John's and simply laced his fingers into his hand. John's body twitched in surprise as the warm skin wrapped around his hand, but he didn't dare move away. Not from this.

Then, as a complete confirmation of what was happening, John forced his stiff fingers to move also and to entwine into Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked down at their hands, and back up at John's blue eyes, wild and nervous, and inhaled deeply.

John had no idea what was happening. But if he backed out now, this would never happen again. Never.

So John kept his eyes on Sherlock's, as if daring him to make that move, to close that last bit of distance between them. Sherlock squeezed John's hand. Asking for affirmation. 

His stomach turning, John swallowed hard, and he dropped his eyes down to Sherlock's mouth.

That was an answer.

Suddenly, Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed the back of John's knee and brought him down onto the chair, and suddenly John was straddling Sherlock's thighs. John dropped the scissors to the floor, using his free hand to wrap it around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock was looking up at John with total unmistakable desire. Sherlock's hand had curled around John's hip, and it felt like Sherlock's hand was burning straight through his clothes.

John folded his body down, and now their faces were centimeters away from each other's, their eyes studying each other's mouths, their hearts pounding in apprehension. Then John leaned down and crushed their lips together, and everything  _exploded._ God, he'd been waiting for this for ages.

Sherlock let out a small gasp of surprise, and he grabbed John closer, like he couldn't get enough. John grinned against his mouth, responding in kind, holding Sherlock's face in his hands. 

Sherlock's arms closed tightly around John's hips, and he pulled him close to his chest, and John wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock's neck, trying desperately to get close. John could feel the lust take over, hormones crazed and overloaded.

They kissed for ages, and then John pulled away, rolling their foreheads together gently, looking down into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's breathing was ragged, his lips pink from kissing.

"You sure you want this?" John asked, because it had to be asked. "It's just, you've never shown..."

"There isn't a doubt in my mind," Sherlock said, and he was nearly growling. "I've wanted this for eighteen months. Don't you dare stop now."

John grinned, and immediately pushed forward, devouring Sherlock's mouth entirely. John's elbow kicked out, knocking over the barber tools that were still laying on the armrest and spreading them across the floor. John couldn't care less.

In a burst of passion, John broke the kiss that had become heated with each second and went to work on Sherlock's earlobe. His lips sucked at it, as if he was drinking from a fruit, and Sherlock's head fell back, his jaw dropping in a silent moan.

"J-John..." Sherlock gasped softly, his mouth stuttering.

God, it was so good to hear Sherlock say his name like that.

With a sharp exhale, John unhooked his mouth from Sherlock's ear, and went back to his lips, attacking the inside of his mouth with his tongue like there was a treasure inside. Sherlock reciprocated enthusiastically, energetically, moaning every second, his hands never resting.

 It wasn't long before they were both gasping like they were both trapped in a room with no air and all heat.

"Bedroom," Sherlock said, his voice husky with passion. "Now."

John sat stunned for a moment. "Yes," John responded, and he was surprised to learn that his voice too had deepened. "Oh, God yes."

In a rush, the two jumped up, their hands unable to leave each other's bodies. They dragged each other to the bedroom, John's heart beating wildly in his chest.

Once they were through the door, Sherlock pushed John against a wall for his turn at his lips, and everything just seemed to fall away. John held on tightly to Sherlock's neck, his weakened knees nearly bringing him down to the floor on several occasions, but Sherlock held him up, his hands grasping to John's arse.

Sherlock kissed fervently, with energy that John had never seen or experienced before, not even when they were on cases. No, this was different. Much different. And they were both feeling it.

After what felt like years of endless sucking of lips, and the sweetness of their shared breath, Sherlock moved down to John's neck, teasing at the skin with his tongue, and John tilted his head up to the ceiling.

His cock was hard now, bursting and begging to be let free from his trousers.

"Sh-Sherlock..." John muttered, and immediately, Sherlock pulled back.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, worry in his voice, and John shook his head.

"No, good, very good," John said, his breath heavy. "But you have to stop. I don't want my first time with you to be in my pants."

Sherlock stilled for a second, as if in shock. "You mean, you want..."

"Very much," John replied. "But only if you want to-"

John's sentence was broken off by Sherlock's lips, heated and full of unhidden hunger.

Then Sherlock seized John again and practically dragged him across the floor, although John went willingly.

Then Sherlock turned so that John's back was to the bed, and began taking off John's shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it across the room without looking to see where it landed.

John felt Sherlock's hands on him, his lips trailing over John's body, looking John over like something to be devoured, and John could feel his stomach clench in anticipation.

Sherlock's hands trailed down across John's naked torso, his heated skin, and came to a halt at John's trousers, his hands right there, positioned at his crotch. 

John watched as Sherlock looked up at him, still asking if this was all okay, if _they_ were okay.

"Yes," John said to the unsaid question. "Now hurry up and take off my trousers."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. His deft hands that John always saw fiddling on the violin were now ripping away the belt like it had done something despicable. 

When finally John's trousers were torn off, Sherlock pushed John's shoulders, throwing him onto the mattress. Sherlock came down on him, their chests on top of each other, and he tugged down John's briefs to his ankles.

A sigh escaped John's throat as his erection was freed from its constraints, and Sherlock couldn't seem to stop staring at it. And that should have made John self-conscious, or perhaps even uncomfortable, but instead, it made him grab onto Sherlock's arse to get his attention.

"You...you still have too many clothes on," John said, breathing heavily, and Sherlock's dark eyes lifted to meet John's. "We've got to fix that."

And then just like that, John seized Sherlock's shoulders, and he flipped Sherlock's body so that he was now on top of Sherlock, his knees on either side of Sherlock's bony hips.

Sherlock looked up at John, surprise, and anticipation in his heavy-lidded and darkened eyes, and his kiss-swollen lips pulled into a breathy smirk.

 _"Then fix me,"_ Sherlock growled, his voice so full of want and heat, and it made a rush of arousal sweep over John like he was a house in a flood.

In a flash, John had Sherlock's shirt flung across the room, and his pants and trousers somewhere by the door, and he was kissing him so fervently that when John broke from the kiss, Sherlock let out a bone-shakingly loud moan into the ceiling.

Their bellies lay on top of each other, their bare erections touching with no other agenda, and the intimacy of that moment was absolutely startling.

Sherlock opened his shut eyes to look at John. His pupils were full-blown, almost over coloring his green irises. John smiled, his lips turning slightly upwards in a joyous smirk, and bent down again to kiss him, softly and assuredly. They both sighed into the kiss, and Sherlock's arm roamed John's naked back, the other arm pulling him closer.

"Stay," Sherlock murmured against John's mouth. "Please."

John grinned. "Well since you asked so nicely," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's eyes darted over John's face. His mouth stuttered nervously. 

"I need to tell you something," Sherlock said, his voice deep and sober. "I-I need to get it out before I haven't the chance anymore." 

"What is it?" John asked, looking down at Sherlock. 

"I-I love you," Sherlock blurted and then exhaled breath on John's shocked face. "I've wanted to tell you for so long and I-" 

John cut him off by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's lips, his tongue licking on the underside of Sherlock's, and exhaled blissfully into his mouth. Sherlock kissed back fervently, desperately, joyfully, pressing his hands into John's naked back so hard it created wrinkles.

Finally, John pulled away, chuckling softly on Sherlock's parted mouth. 

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes," John whispered. "God, I love you, too." 

Sherlock smirked. "I know," he said. "Kiss me again." 

And John did, and he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, newly cut and fresh. 

* * *

The morning light flooded through the windows, and shined through John's eyelids, waking him up. John blinked rapidly at the sudden light, and he looked around the room.

It was empty except for him, with rumpled sheets draped over him carefully, on a bed that definitely wasn't his.

Then John remembered. Last night.

John let out a contented sigh as the memories came flooding back, and he stretched his arms and back, scratching his skin and yawning.

He was about to get up to start breakfast when the door swung open, and Sherlock appeared at the door, carrying a tray of food. His bathrobe was draped over him lazily, and his perfect curly hair was mussed.

As soon as Sherlock had entered, John grinned brightly. "Oh. Good morning."

"Good morning," Sherlock replied, returning the smile. "I made you breakfast."

"How awfully nice of you." John playfully exaggerated, and he found himself returning Sherlock's grin. "And what's the occasion?"

Sherlock set down the tray carefully on John's lap. "You," Sherlock said softly, looking into his eyes. "It's always been you."

John's heart jumped at the sentiment. He couldn't stop beaming.

"Thank you," John said. "It looks delicious."

Sherlock couldn't seem to stop staring at John as he sat down on the bed. John sipped his tea, made just the way he liked it, and he chewed on his toast, which somehow tasted better than it usually did.

Once John had finished his small breakfast, he put the tray to the side on the bed, and he turned to look at Sherlock.

But Sherlock was already looking at him, with this soft look in his eyes, and with this expression on his face like John was the sun. It made John's insides turn to cream, and he returned the look.

And then Sherlock leaned forward and pressed chaste a kiss to John's lips, and it was sweet and calm, and it was full of promises and apologies. Of new understandings. Of love.

When they broke apart, their faces lingered close to each other's, and their smiles spreading across their cheeks.

And it was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed my first Johnlock fic! Please review! 
> 
> ~ZipZap


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